Page 46 of Road Trip
“It’s kinda my superpower,” her sister agreed. “Listen, I’m starved. How soon can you get ready for breakfast?”
Maeve took a sip of coffee, made a face, and put the mug aside. “I’ll hit the shower and be down in fifteen minutes. You go ahead and order me some food, okay? And let’s hope the coffee downstairs is better than this sludge.”
As soon asMaeve was seated in the restaurant their server, a teenager with tattoo sleeves on both arms, slid a plate onto the table in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“Your usual,” Therese said, feigning innocence. “Poached eggs, a rasher of bacon, toast, et cetera.”
Maeve poked a fork at the other item on the plate. “And this?”
“Blood pudding. I know how you like to sample the local cuisine.”
Therese dipped her spoon into a huge bowl of yogurt sprinkled with berries and granola. “Eat up!”
“I notice you didn’t order any local cuisine for yourself,” Maeve said.
“Nonsense. These are local currants and raspberries. And I have it on good authority that the yogurt is from special Tarrymore dairy cows.”
Maeve nibbled on a piece of bacon. “Okay, fill me in on your new drinking pal. What was she like? Did you ask about the painting?”
“You should see this woman, Maeve. Remember Mrs. Ottmeyer, from Blessed Sacrament School?”
“The PE teacher? Who bred Dobermans and always wore Members Only jackets and men’s softball pants? She made me run sprints in sixth grade around the playground when I couldn’t do chin-ups on the monkey bars. And then I puked. On her shoes.”
“Served her right. Ottmeyer was super butch. Word was she and Miss Peebles were shacked up together. I swear, Maevey, that’s who Esme Rossington reminded me of. She was dressed like a truckdriver. Smoked like a chimney and knocked back three gin and tonics like they were water, just while we were talking. And she’s a pool shark too.”
“So, not the pearls-and-tiara genteel lady of the manor?”
“More like the janitor of the manor. She said she lives in the former gardener’s cottage, right here on the grounds of the estate.”
“How old?”
Therese considered the question. “Hard to tell with these rugged weather-beaten types. My guess, Esme is in her late seventies, early eighties.”
“Around Mom’s age.”
“Definitely the eccentric type,” Therese said. “Kind of frosty at first, until I complimented her little dog, whose name is Sinead O’Cocker, then she warmed up. Talked pretty freely about her family. And the IRA heist. Said her father and stepmother never really felt safe living here after that, which is why they donated the recovered paintings to the National Gallery, and then, not long after, donated the house to the National Trust.”
“What about the portrait of Lady Geraldine?”
“I was just about to ask about the portrait specifically when she challenged her pool partner to a rematch.”
Maeve stirred her coffee. “Probably a dead end anyway.”
“Not necessarily. Before I left I asked the bartender, and he said Esme is a regular, there most nights, shooting pool or watching soccer with her buddy Reggie. I think we should both go back there tonight. Maybe take a treat for Sinead, to butter up the old lady.”
“Can’t,” Maeve said, carefully spooning raspberry jam onto her toast and avoiding her sister’s penetrating gaze. “I’ve already got plans for tonight.”
Therese raised a questioning eyebrow. “What kind of plans?”
“I’ve been invited to a local pub, to hear traditional Irish music.” Maeve’s cheeks reddened.
“By who?”
“Whom. His name is Liam. After you punked out on me yesterday, I did the distillery tour. He’s the distiller. When I told him wewere here researching Mom’s family roots, he offered to show me the little restored cottage village on the property. The home farm, they call it. Fascinating.”
“An Irishman named Liam, who makes whiskey? How could he not be fascinating?”
